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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960746">Squirrels</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/resilient_rose/pseuds/resilient_rose'>resilient_rose</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:27:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960746</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/resilient_rose/pseuds/resilient_rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick investigates a strange noise in the attic. David films a documentary. Both of them learn too much about squirrels.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek Season 7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Squirrels</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">



        <li>In response to a prompt by
            Anonymous in the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCSeason7">SCSeason7</a>
          collection.
        </li>
    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <strong>Prompt:</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>703: That rustling is not a ghost or a murderer; it's squirrels. Squirrels are nesting in their attic. It's possible David and Patrick will just have to move out.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>David stares at the ceiling, lying in bed in the stiffest possible position. <em> Shh-scritch-thump. </em> He blinks and tucks his chin under the covers. <em> Thump-shup. </em></p><p>There’s something in the attic. It’s not <em>nothing</em>, which Patrick said the first time he woke him up. It’s not the wind, which he said when David shook him the second time. It’s not a pipe rattling, his third suggestion. It’s not <em>go to sleep before I murder you</em>, his fourth remark.</p><p>David elbows him. “<em>Patrick</em>.”</p><p>Patrick turns over, bleary, and stares at him. <em> Scritch-shaa-ski. </em>David’s eyes widen and he sidles closer. </p><p>“Someone is in our attic!”</p><p>“David. You’ve got to lay off the true-crime podcasts.”</p><p>
  <em> Bump-crash. </em>
</p><p>“That is not <em>nothing</em>, Patrick!” he hisses, pointing at the ceiling. “That is <em> someone </em>.”</p><p>“So someone broke into our house, came upstairs, accessed the attic through our bedroom closet, and we didn’t notice?”</p><p>“No! Remember that murder case where--”</p><p>“I’m serious about the podcasts.”</p><p>“--some crackhead would hide in people’s attics and wait for them to fall asleep and…”</p><p>“Okay, so your theory is that some crackhead -- lot of those around here -- is up there waiting to murder us because…?”</p><p>“Because he’s a crackhead, Patrick!”</p><p>Another loud thump, something rustling. </p><p>“Or,” whispers David, “it’s that serial killer who preys on newlyweds because--”</p><p>“Does that guy hide in the attic too?”</p><p>“No. The basement. He cuts off his victim’s hands and hangs them like windchimes.” He lets out a breathy, terrified laugh. “Imagine! Imagine someone coming at you with an ax and--”</p><p>Patrick sits up. “Okay. I’m going to see what it actually is so you stop talking.”</p><p>David grabs at him. “No! No, call the police!”</p><p>“David,” he says gently, “the sheriff is Ronnie’s cousin. I’m not calling her because my husband thinks the wind is some attic maniac. I will never live it down.”</p><p>More thumping, something skittering like claws. David pulls Patrick back into bed.</p><p>“David!”</p><p>“Shut up! He’ll hear us!”</p><p>Patrick could wrestle out of David’s grip -- he’s stronger -- but instead he shouts, “If anyone’s up there--”</p><p>David gasps and tries to cover Patrick’s mouth. Patrick fights him off and continues.</p><p>“--anyone’s up there waiting to murder us, we’re down here! In bed! Defenseless!” </p><p>“Eugh!”</p><p>“No? Okay! Great! Thought so--”</p><p><em> Shuffle-thump-thud</em>.</p><p>He stops, listening as the noise grows louder. It sounds panicked. Chaotic.</p><p>“New theory!” says David, voice high. “That’s a demon, and you just insulted it!”</p><p>“Demons aren’t real, David--”</p><p>“Fine! Then it’s a ghost-”</p><p>“Okay. Gonna need a longer conversation if you actually believe in ghosts. But for now…”</p><p>He gets out of bed again and takes his baseball bat out of the closet. </p><p>“...for now I’m going to see what it is.”</p><p>“Why are you taking your bat?” asks David, horrified.</p><p>“Because there’s a tiny chance you’re right.”</p><p>“Mmkay this is very dashing, but I’m too young to be a widower--” He stops as Patrick pulls the hatch to the attic down. “Oh God. Oh God, don’t go up there--”</p><p>“David.” He thumps the top of his bat on the ceiling. “Eh! Anyone up there?”</p><p>
  <em> Scritchhh… </em>
</p><p>“Are those <em> fingernails</em>?”</p><p>“Maybe it’s an animal.” He grabs a flashlight from the bedside table. (David argued about its placement -- <em> when would we ever need that </em>?) He gestures with it. “Huh, guess we needed this--”</p><p>“Fuck off!”</p><p>He turns the flashlight on and directs it through the hatch. Then he pulls himself up the ladder, beaming the light around the empty attic. </p><p>“Told you it’s noth--oh boy.”</p><p>“What?” yells David. “What is it?”</p><p>He holds very still, contemplating a family of squirrels. There are six, maybe more in the shadows. He can’t tell David that there are pestilent, bushy-tailed rodents in their attic. A serial killer would be better. </p><p>“Patrick!” shouts David. “Why aren’t you telling me?”</p><p>A squirrel skitters toward him and he drops off the ladder. He shuts off the flashlight and breathes out as David stares at him. David gestures, manic, awaiting an explanation.</p><p>“It’s squirrels--”</p><p>“Okay, FUCK no,” says David, getting out of bed, dancing away from the closet with the top sheet around him like a cape.</p><p>“They’re harmless--”</p><p>“They’re probably rabid, Patrick! Normal animals don’t invade people’s attics!”</p><p>“It’s cold, David, they probably--”</p><p>“Mmno, nope…” He heads for the stairs. “I am calling an exterminator, a fumigator, and a realtor! And then I’m sleeping on the couch!”</p><p>“David--” Patrick sighs as he disappears. He tosses his bat aside and follows him into the hall. “David, c’mon, just come back to bed--”</p><p>David spins, stumbles on his sheet, and says, “Absolutely not!” </p><p>Patrick turns back, grabbing David’s glasses from beside the bed, then follows David down the stairs. David drifts onto the couch and folds his arms tight, staring into the fireplace.</p><p>“We have to move,” he says blankly.</p><p>Patrick hands him his glasses, then shoves a pillow against him and leans on it. He takes his phone off the coffee table.</p><p>“What are you doing?” snips David.</p><p>“Looking up how to remove squirrels?”</p><p>“No. No no. You are not DIYing this.”</p><p>“Exterminators are expensive, David. And inhumane.”</p><p>“Okay. Since when have you been an animal rights activist?”</p><p>“They don’t deserve to die just because they got in our attic.”</p><p>David replies with an airy laugh. “Oh yes they do!”</p><p>“Think the hardware store has traps?” mutters Patrick, scrolling through a step-by-step guide on squirrel removal. </p><p>“No, but they have rat poison!”</p><p>“It’s actually illegal to kill squirrels under Canadian law.”</p><p>“What wackjobs wrote <em> that </em> law?”</p><p>“Ontario is home to three types of squirrels,” Patrick continues. “Gray, black, and red. Grey squirrels are known to cannibalize their species when food is scarce. Huh.”</p><p>David flinches. “Ugh!”</p><p>“When removing squirrels from your home--”</p><p>“This cannot be happening!”</p><p>“--remember to check traps often so the squirrel doesn’t get nervous. Noted.”</p><p>“Patrick. You aren’t actually going to do this.”</p><p>“I don’t see what choice I have, David. You aren’t.”</p><p>“Okay. I know you’re a very capable person, but maybe leave <em> this </em> one to the professionals--”</p><p>“How hard can it be?”</p><p>“The last time you asked me that, you tried to fix the dryer and you electrocuted yourself.”</p><p>“I fixed the dryer, though.”</p><p>“Mhm, this? This handyman complex you have? It needs to go.”</p><p>Patrick sets his phone aside and snuggles into David, who sighs loudly. </p><p>“Move over, David. Need to get some rest if I’m going to relocate a family of squirrels.”</p><p>***</p><p>Patrick gets up early the next day, leaving David on the couch, and returns with several shiny squirrel traps. David films him as he stashes peanuts and granola in the traps, sitting on the living room floor like a kid on Christmas morning.</p><p>“One-way doors. Nice design.”</p><p>“And here…” David narrates, “we see my husband in his natural environment, embarking on a journey he’s not prepared for, physically or emotionally--”</p><p>Patrick glances up. “Can you not?”</p><p>“--a journey that will test his very humanity--”</p><p>“And can you grab me a Phillip's head?”</p><p>“--a journey that will transform him from mere man to <em> squirrel whisperer</em>--”</p><p>“David. Phillip's head.”</p><p>David turns the phone on himself. “He thinks I know what that is. Ahahh. Ha.”</p><p>“Who’s this video for, David? Who’s the audience?”</p><p>David directs the camera back on him. “Um, this is a docuseries which will one day win an Emmy--”</p><p>Patrick shakes his head and hops up. He pats David’s arm as he passes him. “Thanks for getting the screwdriver.”</p><p>David lifts his coffee mug up. “Honey while you’re up can you refill my--”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>David raises his brows at the camera. “Someone’s testy.”</p><p>“David?” calls Patrick, going into the kitchen, “Maybe that’s because I slept on the couch instead of our bed, because you…” He comes back, screwdriver in hand. “...wouldn’t sleep upstairs.”</p><p>“Okay, I didn’t <em> make </em> you sleep on the couch with me, and maybe you wouldn’t have had to do that if we didn’t live in an agrarian hellscape!”</p><p>“Agrarian hellscape,” Patrick says to the camera.</p><p>“Excuse me, you’re the subject of this documentary," says David. "When I want you to talk to the camera I’ll tell you.”</p><p>Patrick drops into a seat by the cages and looks at the camera again. “Do you see what I have to deal with?”</p><p>David pops his brows, narrating again. “And now, our intrepid trapper, born of ice and snow in the rugged north of Ontario--”</p><p>“Technically south but sure.”</p><p>“--is demonstrating his mechanical expertise by using a screwdriver. Tch. So good with his hands.”</p><p>“David.”</p><p>“Now our hero delicately, but skillfully, opens the trap--”</p><p>Patrick starts to laugh. “How are you doing this off the top of your head?”</p><p>“--but he’s distracted again by his <em> gorgeous </em> cameraman--”</p><p>Patrick shakes his head, moving to the next trap.</p><p>“Just a dazzling, impeccably dressed cameraman, our hero’s preoccupation <em> is </em> understandable…”</p><p>Patrick gets to his feet and picks up the cages. David follows him upstairs, smirking, overly pleased. </p><p>“The elevation rises, the air growing colder with each breath...as he reaches the peak, our valiant explorer pauses, taking in the enormity of the task before him--”</p><p>“Seriously, did you practice this?”</p><p>“--even in a saturnine moment such as this, he’s distracted by his cameraman, who selflessly accompanies him everywhere…”</p><p>Patrick gestures in wordless appreciation. </p><p>“His cameraman, who may have smoked a joint first thing this morning, which might explain whatever <em> this </em> is.”</p><p>Patrick nods. “Healthy choices, David.” He continues into their room, then stops. “Uh.”</p><p>David ignores his hesitation, joining him in the doorway, continuing his narration. “Armed only with a trap, his intelligence, and his burly arms--”</p><p>“David there’s a squirrel in here.”</p><p>David shrieks, throws his phone, and jumps behind Patrick. He peeks over his shoulder and they look at the squirrel as it skitters off the side table, across their bed, to the window.</p><p>“Thought I shut the attic…”</p><p>“Oh my God, do something!”</p><p>The squirrel leaps off the windowsill and heads for the door. David throws his hands up, dancing backward.</p><p>“Okay! Nope! No! Mm mm, no, you’re on your own!”</p><p>“Thanks so much, David. Ah, damn--”</p><p>David stops, twirling at the top of the stairs, and watches the squirrel escape their room. He runs out of sight with a yelpy shout and Patrick puts his hands on his hips, nodding. Then he jogs after the squirrel as it careens from hall to bathroom to hall to guest room. He throws open a window and it launches out of it, skittering down the side of the house like a furry gecko.</p><p>“IS IT DEAD?” David screams from downstairs.</p><p>“No, David! Told you we weren’t doing that!”</p><p>“IS IT OUT?”</p><p>“Yep, it’s out!”</p><p>He waits for David to rejoin him, investigating their room for signs of damage. It seems the squirrel was here briefly, because there are no chewed cords, no strewn pillow fluff, and thank God, no droppings. David would flee the country.</p><p>“Okay,” breathes David, entering the room like it has tripwires. “Okay…”</p><p>The other squirrels rustle in the attic and he jumps.</p><p>“Do I have my cameraman back now?” asks Patrick.</p><p>“No. <em> That </em> little encounter startled the will to roleplay right out of me.”</p><p>“Well, for what it’s worth, I thought throwing the phone was pretty inspired.”</p><p>“Mhm. My directorial skills are beyond compare.”</p><p>More rustling. Patrick sighs, glancing at the ceiling. </p><p>“At least this didn’t happen at the store. Could have damaged our inventory.”</p><p>“Are you stalling?”</p><p>“Little bit.”</p><p>David smirks, watching him. “Mhm.” He picks up his phone, resuming his documentary. “As Captain Brewer approaches the cave--”</p><p>“Oh, I’m a captain now?”</p><p>“You do have that <em>look</em>. Like, you look like you immigrated here on a ship filled with...potatoes and...sheep…”</p><p>“How does that make me a captain?”</p><p>“Because of the…” David pauses, losing track. “The ship.”</p><p>Patrick nods. “Ah.” Then he gestures at David’s phone. “As much as I’m enjoying this, you need to hand me the traps.”</p><p>David pockets his phone. “Fine, but if I see so much as a tail, I’m leaving.”</p><p>Patrick shifts into the closet and looks into the hatch. Then he sighs and climbs up the ladder, poking his head into the attic. David hands him one trap, as far from the opening as possible, and grimaces.</p><p>“Can you see them? How many are there?”</p><p>“About ten.”</p><p>David splutters. “What do you mean <em> ten</em>?”</p><p>“They’re pack animals, David.”</p><p>“No they aren’t! You don’t know anything about squirrels!”</p><p>“No, I know too much, I used to help my grandma skin the ones she shot off her garden fence--”</p><p>“Okay. Hate that I know that.”</p><p>Patrick gestures for the next trap. “Made good soup.”</p><p>David opens his mouth. “Your family is fucking insane!” </p><p>“They’re just rural, David--”</p><p>He stops, scrambling off the ladder. He falls against David and stares through the hatch with a look of alarm. David squeaks in abject terror as a squirrel scrambles past, chattering.</p><p>“I told you they’re rabid! Do you know what rabies does to your body? Remember that episode of <em> Criminal Minds </em> where--”</p><p>“Nope. Goin’ back in.”</p><p>He climbs the ladder again and David hands him another trap, then another, until all five are in the attic. </p><p>“They’re actually kind of cute,” says Patrick, stretching to push the traps deeper; he sets his knee in the attic and David gestures, bewildered, as he crawls in. “There we go…and...that...yep, that is a lot of squirrel poo--”</p><p>David lets out a particularly affected laugh. “Okay! My God, well, I hope you enjoy being hosed down in the back because you’re not getting in our shower now--”</p><p>“David? They chewed through..everything up here.”</p><p>“Did they?” asks David, still laughing in a pained, crazed manner.</p><p>“Like. The insulation. The wiring. There’s a hole in the roof.”</p><p>“Mhm! Well that sounds like a lot of work for you!”</p><p>“There goes the wifi upgrade.”</p><p>“What?” yells David.</p><p>“Well, we can’t afford that now, this is squirrel armageddon.” Patrick starts back down the ladder. “Aren’t you glad we didn’t pay for an exterminator?”</p><p>David simpers at him, backing up. “Okay. Do not get any closer. I’m calling Stevie and telling her you’ll be at her place in ten for a shower.”</p><p>Patrick steps off the ladder, pauses by David, and tugs him into a kiss by his chin. “I’m showering here, David.”</p><p>David freezes as if struck, then closes his eyes and gestures. “Unacceptable.”</p><p>Patrick pats his arm and continues into the bathroom. David wilts, gagging, and pokes the door to the hatch shut.</p><p>“Stop leaving this open!”</p><p>“Thought you might want another squirrel on our bed,” calls Patrick, running the water. </p><p>“Oh God,” says David, recalling this image. </p><p>He yanks the bedspread off and flings it into the hall, along with pillowcases, a throw blanket, and his sweater. By the time Patrick comes back in, David’s started a load of laundry and is wiping off every surface in their room. He’s wearing rubber gloves up to his elbows, holding a spray bottle of bleach, shirtless. </p><p>“You good?” asks Patrick, shaking some water out of his ear.</p><p>David gestures at himself. “Do I <em> look </em> good?”</p><p>Patrick raises his brows, playful. “You look great--”</p><p>David holds up a finger. “No. Don’t start. It will be a <em> literal </em> miracle if I ever sleep with you in this bed again.”</p><p>“David, it’s just a squirrel--”</p><p>“They carry diseases, Patrick!” He shoves the bleach and cleaning cloth into Patrick's hands. “Keep going! You better have saved me water!”</p><p>“A thank you might have been nice, but--”</p><p>“I could have thanked an exterminator!” David says with an irritable glance.</p><p>Patrick gestures in defeat and David shuts the bathroom door.</p><p>“Yep,” Patrick murmurs to himself, spritzing the headboard. </p><p>***</p><p>By the time it’s dark, they haven’t caught a single squirrel. Patrick starts researching squirrel facts and offering various explanations for their behavior. <em> They sleep during the day, David. They aren’t fond of granola, David. They’re highly intelligent, David.  </em></p><p>David puts on headphones after Patrick suggests the squirrels invaded their attic to have babies. Patrick keeps talking at him and doesn’t glance up until he asks about dinner and doesn’t get a reply.</p><p>He notices the headphones and nudges David's knee. </p><p>David jumps and tugs one earbud out. “<em>What</em>?”</p><p>“I asked if you want pizza.”</p><p>David hops up, closing his book. “Yes. Yes, I will even pick it up, anything to get out of this…” He gestures upstairs. “Menagerie. Chicken pesto?”</p><p>Patrick tips his head back on the couch and puts his laptop aside. “And olives.”</p><p>“Don’t get bitten while I’m gone.” David pecks him on the cheek and sweeps his keys off the coffee table. “And if you do, don’t tell me.”</p><p>“Gonna have to, David, because you’ll be driving me to the hospital.”</p><p>David raises his brows as he goes out the door. “Uh, you punched <em> that </em> ticket last spring when you tore your ACLU.”</p><p>“That’s a civil liberties organization, David.”</p><p>“No, it’s the knee thingy that you popped right off your bone because you just had to catch that pitch!”</p><p>Patrick considers. “Wasn't a pitch, and worth it.”</p><p>“Mhm, that isn’t what you said when you were <em> literally </em> weeping in the ER.” He pulls on a leather jacket. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, it’s because I drove to New York.”</p><p>“Yeah, no pest problems there.”</p><p>He’s not back for an hour, because he stops at their store for red wine and gets distracted by the arrangement of the new body butter. When he finally wanders back into their living room, he’s mellowed out from arranging bottles according to color. Mellowed out until he sees several traps on the floor, each holding two -- in one case, four -- agitated squirrels. </p><p>He lowers the pizza box, mouth open in a grimace. “Um?”</p><p>“Oh, hey David,” says Patrick, reading Forbes, unconcerned. </p><p>David inches past the traps to the kitchen. “Why...what...what is going on?”</p><p>“Well, they finally went in, and I brought them down here to show you.”</p><p>“Instead of taking them outside!?” </p><p>“I thought we should do that together. And thanks for ignoring my text about picking up some plywood and spray foam.”</p><p>“Um, you know I hate the hardware store, and also I don’t know what spray foam is.”</p><p>“I sent you a picture.”</p><p>David tilts his head, setting down the wine and pizza. “Did you?”</p><p>“You know I did, David, it said <em> read</em>.” Patrick gets up and joins him in the kitchen, flicking the pizza box open; he takes a slice, leans to kiss David hello, and adds, “Ready?”</p><p>“To relocate the vermin you’re somehow attached to? Yes.”</p><p>“Aw, they’re not vermin, David. They’re intelligent, sociable puffballs--”</p><p>He pauses as one of the squirrels barks at them. </p><p>“--with rabies,” he finishes.</p><p>“Mhm, yes, let’s take those rabid puffballs as far away as possible--”</p><p>“Can’t do that. Have to relocate them within an acre of where we found them. They might have nests, or food caches--”</p><p>“Okay, last time I checked, I didn’t marry Jane Goodall!”</p><p>“David, listen to me,” says Patrick, putting his arms around his neck. “I looked it up, and 97% of relocated squirrels die.”</p><p>“I’m fine with that!”</p><p>“I’m not. This is my apology to all the squirrels Grandma Brewer took out with a BB-gun--”</p><p>David gestures in disbelief. “Have you been drinking?” </p><p>“I <em> did </em> have some whiskey while you were doing whatever you were doing--”</p><p>“The body butter wasn’t correct,” says David, playing with his collar, “so I tried a new placement scheme--”</p><p>“Okay. That. But it hasn’t affected my judgment about the squirrels.”</p><p>“Okay,” breathes David. “I love you, and I love what a good person you are--”</p><p>Patrick smiles, doe-eyed. “Aw, David--”</p><p>David pulls back, chin doubling up on itself. “How much did you have?” He huffs. “Never mind. We are <em> not </em> rehoming those squirrels to our backyard.”</p><p>“Yep. We are. And if you’d gotten my siding and spray foam, we could keep them from coming back to our attic.” </p><p>David makes a face. </p><p>“But for now, we’ll tape a tarp over that hole and hope for the best.”</p><p>“Mhm. Why do I feel like you’ve done this before?”</p><p>“I’m from rural Ontario?"</p><p>“Mm no, <em> this </em> is rural, where you’re from is...” His eyes drift as he recalls last Christmas. “Primitive untouched backcountry.”</p><p>“Your vocabulary is kind of turning me on--”</p><p>“Okay, <em> you </em>…” says David, pushing him away, “are going to put those traps in the car and we’re going to drive to the creek.”</p><p>“Are we?” asks Patrick, leaving the kitchen to grab three traps. He heads for the back door, looking at David with a delighted, defiant chuckle, and goes out. “Hurry up, David!”</p><p>David throws his head back and rubs his face. “God.”</p><p>Then he picks up the other traps, petulant and disgusted, and trots after Patrick. They walk together toward the hedgerow at the back of their yard, traps clinking, squirrels scolding them with various chirps and squeals.</p><p>David frowns. “Are they nocturnal or…?”</p><p>“No, they’re crepuscular,” says Patrick.</p><p>“What the fuck is crepuscular?”</p><p>“Active at dusk and dawn.”</p><p>“Did you read about squirrels all day?”</p><p>“Yeah, and watched a documentary when you were gone--”</p><p>“Mhm, and picked up Forbes to seem <em> not </em> insane when I got back?”</p><p>“That’s right.”</p><p>David rolls his eyes, softening as he glances at Patrick. He catches his smile before it blooms into something indefensibly tender. </p><p>Then they pause at the hedges and set the cages down. </p><p>“On three,” says Patrick.</p><p>David steels himself and kneels by the nearest cage; he hooks his finger under the door release, poised, and looks at Patrick.</p><p>Patrick grins and mirrors him. “Freedom, baby. One...two...three!”</p><p>They pull the doors open. The squirrels don’t move.</p><p>“Thatwas underwhelming,” David says a moment later.</p><p>Patrick hums. “Maybe they think we’re predators.”</p><p>“Um, <em> you </em> are, Mr. Squirrel Soup--”</p><p>David stops as his squirrel rockets out of the cage and up the nearest tree. </p><p>“Okay!” he says, breathy, jumping back.</p><p>The other squirrel follows. Patrick hurries to unlatch the other traps and he steps back, grabbing David's hand. They watch tail after bushy tail disappears into the tree, a zigzaggy frenzy. </p><p>“Stay there!” David shouts after they’re out of sight.</p><p>“We love you!” adds Patrick, like they’re sending a kid off to college.</p><p>“Very done with this,” says David.</p><p>“Hate to say this David, but squirrels are known as repeat pests--”</p><p>“I don’t want to know.”</p><p>“So they’ll probably chew back in.”</p><p>“Mhm.” He thumbs over Patrick’s knuckles, staring into the tree as the wind casts leaves onto the grass. “Can we go inside and watch <em> Murder She Wrote </em> now?”</p><p>“As soon as you help me with the roof."</p>
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